


Silver and Amethyst

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [16]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, F/M, Falling In Love, Gen, Pre-Sack of Erebor, Pre-Smaug, Sack of Erebor, archive warnings for attempts only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2018-12-02 11:43:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11508726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Erebor, before Smaug. The first time Natfári saw Arnóra, she was being attacked by a dwarf twice her size. The first time Arnóra saw Natfári, he was calmly threatening to kill the dwarf who'd been intending to rape her. As far as 'How I met your mother'-stories, the Black Owl would probably win hands down if such a competition ever arose.Features the later parents of Dori, Nori, and Ori.Bear in mind that the archive warnings are for an attempted sexual assault.Apparently, I live to tease Littlenori...





	1. Chapter 1

Arnóra tossed her mithril locks over her shoulder with a slight huff of annoyance. The braids her Adad had plaited this morning were beautiful, but she wished he had put them differently, binding her hair closer to her skull so she wouldn’t have to keep pushing small curls out of her face. Adad loved her hair long and flowing, however, always telling her how much she looked like her Amad that way, which was why Arnóra didn’t complain, even when the loose hair annoyed her at work. Amad had been the most beautiful Dwarf in Erebor, Adad said, and though she had died years ago giving birth to Arnóra’s baby brother, he still missed her every day. The young wire-weaver apprentice knew she was beautiful, her shiny mithril locks her most prominent feature, but the lovely hair was paired with a well-shaped face and a body that could turn heads. She was too young to care much about finding love, only just turned sixty-eight and still just a senior apprentice, but she knew that her looks would eventually have suitors vying for her hand. It amused her slightly when she caught Master Járngrímr staring; she hadn’t much interest in the other metal-crafters who sighed after her, and Járngímr was _old_ – almost 220, she thought, and so fat it was rumoured he had crushed his wife in bed thirty years ago. The Master Engineer was unspeakably dull, but he paid her own Master well for the copper and bronze wires they made for his work, so Master Rudi tended to allow him in the workshop. Turning her attention back to the thin gold wire she was pulling, Arnóra put all thoughts of Járngrímr’s gaze from her mind. If she did well, perhaps Master Rudi would let her spend a few minutes each day making a pendant for Norin’s Nameday? She had already decided on a design, and maybe her friend Hornbori would carve lucky runes into the pretty aventurine cabochon she had chosen for the center? Thoughts full of plans and reminders to herself, Arnóra completed her tasks with a smile on her face.

 

Later, as she was thrown against a wall, bleeding from a split lip and trying to keep Járngrímr from pulling up her skirts, she regretted ignoring the way he had stared at her. If she had asked Eyfura to walk home with her, or been more aware of her surroundings, perhaps she wouldn’t be _here_ , fighting for her virtue if not her life. He had broken one of her wrists already, and the bloody nose she had repaid him with had not slowed him down in the least. She couldn’t hear herself screaming, nor did she catch more than the distant sound of a roar, but suddenly Járngrímr was gone, and some Dwarf she did not know was standing before her. His face, pointy in profile, was contorted in a fearsome snarl, and when she managed to move her eyes past the fine-boned hands that were agilely blocking Járngrímr’s more clumsy blows, she realised that one of the dwarf’s knives was embedded in the engineer’s shoulder. With a move she could not follow, the stranger had a knife at Járngrímr’s throat, poised to slit it.

“Don’t!” Arnóra didn’t know who called out to stop the murderous stranger, but when he looked at her questioningly, she realised it had been her.

“Don’t what?” the knife-wielding dwarf asked, in a surprisingly pleasant voice. Arnóra gaped. The whole thing had happened so fast; it was slightly unreal. Her heart hammered in her chest, her breath coming in quick pants as her mind whirled. Staring at the tableau in front of her, she felt like she was in a bad dream, but the deadly calm of the dark-clad stranger told her otherwise. He did not prompt her again for a reason; apparently content simply to look at her while calmly threatening a fat dwarf’s life until she gathered her thoughts.

“Don’t kill him.” Arnóra said, surprising herself. Járngrímr opened his mouth to say something, but he thought better of it when the stranger’s blade nicked the soft skin beneath his bushy beard. A drop of blood painted a vivid crimson streak against his walnut skin. The stranger did not reply. “Please.” Arnóra continued. She didn’t know why it mattered, but she somehow didn’t want the strange Dwarf to have Járngrímr’s blood on his hands.

“I can’t just let him go, either,” the stranger with the red-brown hair replied, with the same level voice he might have used if they were discussing the merits of ale over beer rather than someone’s _life_. Arnóra shook her head. A distant thought told her that she should be concerned to be in the company of someone who held so little respect for life, but something about the stranger’s grey eyes made her feel safe in his presence. “You clearly didn’t want his attentions, and you look a bit young for such games anyhow. This dwarf is a criminal, Miss, and I really don’t like rapists…” his voice continued evenly, though his eyes darkened when he mentioned what might have so easily happened – if he had not been nearby, surely the fat dwarf would eventually have succeeded.

“Take him to the Guard. I want the whole Mountain to know what he tried to do.” Suddenly furious, Arnóra spat at Járngrímr’s feet. “I want the King to see the scum that walk these Halls. The Way is clear-” Arnóra wondered if her unknown saviour knew she was the eldest daughter of Lawmaker Rúnvidr, but it didn’t really matter; all Dwarrow were taught _these_ laws. “-let him be judged by the Maker and the King. He does not deserve the mercy of a quick death.”

“Vengeance and Beauty,” the stranger mused, mirth glittering in his deep grey eyes. “So be it, my Lady. For you, I shan’t kill this piece of Orc-bait. You will have to go to the Guard with me, however: They’ll want your testimony.” Arnóra nodded.

 

Much later, when one of the Guards’ runners had fetched her Adad, followed by her teary sister Norin carrying little Lokki, and Rúnvidr had assured himself of his daughter’s well-being, Arnóra finally realised that she never even asked for the name of her saviour. Looking around for him, however, proved fruitless: the stranger with the grey eyes had disappeared as though he had never been there at all. When she asked the Guard on duty, he told her that he had no idea who the dwarf was, but that he’d left a sworn statement of the event in question marked with a mysterious ‘N’-rune.

 

Natfári, who had been on his way home when he spotted the altercation down one of the narrow shortcuts that on the surface would be called alleyways, had not wished to give his true name when he brought in the scum Járngrímr. Not that he wasn’t proud to have caught the would-be rapist, but Natfári the Guard was supposed to be protecting a trade caravan heading to the Iron Hills, not prowling the narrow streets of Erebor as the sneak-thief and grifter Radulf. He was especially not supposed to be carrying the Black Feather, though showing the small agate token to the Captain on duty had conveniently made all questions disappear quietly. He had purposefully taken the shaken young dam – she had struck him as particularly observant, even if she forgot to ask his name – to a Guardhouse he was not posted at in his official job, and trusted that the Captain would know what the small feather represented. Personally, he would have preferred to cut off a few important – to Master Járngrímr, at least – braids and or appendages, but he appreciated the young lady’s courage. Few so young would have dared accuse a Master of Járngrímr’s status of any wrong-doing, much less attempted rape, even with a witness. He sensed more mithril in her spine than her hair, which surprised him at first: beautiful ladies did not usually have as much spirit as Arnóra showed during the attack. In his experience, daughters of noblemen – Lawmakers might rank relatively low in Court hierarchy, but Rúnvidr was still the youngest son of a noble house – were not used to the kind of fighting necessary to fend off such an assault. The broken nose she had delivered had been a thing of beauty, and if Járngrímr hadn’t gotten both her arms behind her back and his hand around her throat, Natfári would have enjoyed watching her pummel him some more. Rubbing his thigh with a wince, he walked back towards the small alleyway. Járngrímr -  too slow and too fat to be much of a threat to him – had not managed to land a blow, but Arnóra’s hard iron-toed boot had left its mark when she tried to kick the Master Engineer just as he pushed him away from his would-be victim. Picking up the small knife she had dropped – he had left his own blade in Járngrímr’s shoulder – Natfári shook his head, a slightly incredulous smile on his face. Had she really been armed with only an eating knife? Resolving to give Arnóra a proper blade at the first opportunity that presented itself and heavily suggest that she learn to use it, Natfári pocketed the small knife, not even questioning whether it was his place to see to her protection.

 

When she finally fell asleep, Arnóra did not dream of Járngrímr’s sweaty face. Instead, her sleep was filled with the gentle mocking laughter of a black-clad stranger with grey eyes and a strangely familiar scent of roses. Amad had dabbed rose oil behind her ears when she was going out with Adad, she remembered, but felt confused by the dream nonetheless. She didn’t think the mysterious ‘N’ had been using the same trick, though she hadn’t noticed what he smelled like at the time.

 

In the morning, when she opened her eyes, a small parcel had been left on her windowsill. Looking down at the three-meter long drop from her window to the street, she wondered how anyone had gotten the parcel into her room. There were no other windows in the wall than hers, and the nearest neighbour was too far to climb easily. Opening the fabric wrapping, she was surprised to find a small dagger inside. At the base of the blade, a small feather had been etched. The dagger was perfectly balanced, made from superior quality steel, with a large amethyst set in the pommel. Tied to the leather-wrapped handle was a scrap of paper with a scrawled ‘N’. Thinking that there might have been a letter from her mysterious saviour, she pawed at the fabric, but found no note accompanying the gift. The fabric turned out to be a large shawl, embroidered with silver thread, like the kind Master Rudi sold, around the edge in a pattern of square knots. It smelled faintly of roses. When Adad came in to see why she wasn’t appearing for breakfast, he found her still seated on her bed, with the shawl lightly wrapped around her shoulders as she stared at the beautiful blade in her hands.

“What’s that, **Zunshfall mim**?” Rúnvidr asked quietly.

“I think it is a gift… from the dwarf who saved me.” Arnóra replied, slightly confused. “Though I do not understand how he knew that you call me Little Feather…” she trailed off, showing off the mark etched into the blade.

“I guess it is simply a decorative symbol, Arnóra,” Rúnvidr said calmly, though his heart jumped when he saw the design clearly. He knew whose position the feather symbol belonged to. “It is a fine blade. You will have to think of a proper gift of gratitude in return.” He would, of course, use different channels to convey his own personal gratitude – and not think about why the Spymaster of Erebor would be wandering around delivering gifts to young dwarrowdams… unless… had the mysterious ‘N’, about whom the guard had been so clueless, actually been the Spymaster himself? He would need to make certain enquiries. If ‘N’ and the Black Owl were one and the same, precautions would have to be taken when the matter was put before the King.

“I cannot, Adad.” Arnóra replied, unable to keep a note of sadness from creeping into her voice at the idea. If she could not thank the giver, it felt wrong to keep the blade, though she already felt quite possessive of it. “I do not know his name, nor where he could be found.”

“Well… think about it, Zunshfall. If he could manage to deliver a gift to your window, I’m sure he could manage to retrieve one too.” Rúnvidr wasn’t entirely comfortable with that knowledge considering what might have just happened with Járngrímr, but if the mysterious ‘N’ truly was the Black Owl, there could be no harm in trying to thank him for his timely assistance… and if he wasn’t, there’d be no harm done for making the attempt. In either case, the smile on his beloved daughter’s face made him happy.

“I will, Adad!” Arnóra laughed, hugging the knife to her chest.

“Good girl. Now, time for breakfast. I’ve asked Journeyman Hargan next door to walk you to Master Rudi’s and back home at the end of the day.” Even if Arnóra saw it as curbing her freedom, he would rather she be annoyed with him than ever have to face that same dread he had yesterday when he was informed by a Guard runner as to the reason for her being late for dinner.

Arnóra nodded her compliance easily. She didn’t mind Hargan’s company, really; he’d been a playmate of sorts when they were younger, and was a nice enough dwarf. He was also the bulkiest muscle-bound dwarf she knew, which was probably why Adad had asked him. Hargan worked for Master Tindri, a few streets from Master Rudi’s workshop, so she’d need to leave a little earlier than usual to keep him from being late to his own work. “Yes, Adad.” Arnóra pecked his cheek quickly before leaving the room, her mind already spinning with ideas for a proper thank-you for her mysterious saviour.

 

 

Elsewhere in Erebor, Natfári crept along the shadows that would keep passers-by from noticing him when he entered the Royal Palace. He would have to explain to King Thrór why his mark had been stamped – inking the Black Feather was so messy, but the mark was almost impossible to forge – on the Guard’s report, as well as the documents that would be delivered to the Court Scribes in preparation for a Trial in front of the King. If they had been Men, the crime might have been handled by a magistrate or a Lawman of the First Degree, but among their kin, females were so rare that any violation of one was considered a crime against the Maker himself. Natfári sometimes wondered how women – that was what Men called their dams, he knew – felt safe walking alone in dark streets when an attacker like Járngrímr could be let off with paying a small fine. With the Spymaster himself as a witness, there was no way Járngrímr would be able to buy the Guards’ silence, even if he had not been placed under the careful watch of Captain Mundi, who was utterly devoted to the protection of dwarrowdams in general and so honourable that even Natfári’s extensive network of spies and informants had had to agree that he was an entirely upstanding citizen. In truth, the good Captain had been one of Natfári’s personal favourites among the Guard even before he accepted the small token of his unofficial office. When the news of the arrest broke – and it would be all over the Mountain by midmorning, or Natfári would be sorely disappointed with his underlings – there was bound to be an uproar. That was another reason he had chosen Mundi’s garrison as the place to deliver Járngrímr – Mundi would not be tempted to give in to a vigilante mob, nor did he hold truck with excessive ‘justice’ administered in the criminal’s cell like some guards Natfári knew.

 

“Lord Nár,” he said quietly, enjoying the way the nobledwarf always jumped when he suddenly appeared from the shadows. “I trust the day finds you well.”

“And you, Abhârzunsh,” Nár replied with an even nod. “I take it you’re here about the report that landed on my desk this morning?”

“About the Nergakart[1] I intervened in, yes,” Natfári replied with what he meant as a pleasant smile, though it came out looking more than a little sinister judging by the way Nár seemed to shrink a little. The King’s advisor rallied quickly, however.

“Yes, a most disconcerting notion – to think I had him round for supper last month!” Nár babbled, looking ill at the thought that he could have shared ale and meat with someone of such despicable nature. “Anyway, King Thrór will see you in his study.”

With a bow, Natfári was gone, leaving Nár to the mess of papers that covered his desk and making his way to the King’s study. When he entered, however, he was slightly surprised to find Prince Thráin standing by the fire, while the King sat behind his desk. The Prince did not generally concern himself with everyday ruling – King Thrór had squashed any such desires ruthlessly, believing his son too weak to be a ruler and never realising that the scared boy who missed his Amad had grown into a thoughtful Dwarf with a good head on his shoulders, even if he was more soft-spoken than most guild masters.

“My King,” Natfári bowed politely, “and Prince Thráin,” he bowed again – only the Prince returned the gesture with a nod – “I hope the day finds you both well.”

“Explain yourself,” Thrór demanded. Natfári felt a little confused, surely the matter was crystal clear?

“Adad, the Abhârzunsh would not accuse someone baselessly, Lord Járngrímr clearly isn’t-” Thráin interjected, but Thrór’s harsh look silenced him abruptly.

“My King, I came across Master Járngrímr of House Reifr as he was attempting to force himself on a very unwilling dam in one of the smaller alleys of the Upper Commons. I intervened on the young lady’s behalf, having been alerted by her screams as I walked down the next street. Luckily I arrived in time to stop Master Járngrímr before irreparable damage was done to the young lady – whom I later learned had not even reached her coming of age – and delivered him to the safekeeping of Captain Mundi at the Moonstone Crescent Guardhouse.”

“Leave.” Thrór said, turning back to his papers. Thráin began moving towards the door, but Natfári stayed – when he needed to report like this, it was never done with in five minutes. “Both of you!” the King suddenly bellowed. Natfári jumped.

 

“Adad is.. not well, today,” the Prince said quietly, when Natfári stumbled out of the study, utterly perplexed. “Járngrímr is an old friend of his, I’m afraid. Do not worry, Abhârzunsh. Adad will do his duty by this young lady Arnóra.”

“Are you sure? That did not… seem like the Thrór I have come to know.” Natfári replied cautiously. Such talk could be considered treasonous, but Thráin did not react beyond a sigh.

“I fear that my Adad is growing old, Abhârzunsh, and the thought makes him ill-tempered as you saw.” Prince Thráin stopped, gesturing down a split in the corridor. “Now, please excuse me, I have to go inform the other Masters of the Engineer’s Guild that our esteemed member has been accused of Nergakart and will be convicted shortly. No one is going to be happy with that news.”

“I should hope they would be pleased that a vicious attack was thwarted and a young lady’s peace preserved,” Natfári replied waspishly.

“And they will be – at first-“ Thráin replied with a slight laugh, “but then they will begin bickering about who will take over Járngrímr’s apprentices, who has the most rights to his workshop – his heir or his senior journeyman, probably – and who should finish whatever commissions are on his books, and the squabble will be endless. I had hoped to spend my evening with Lady Frís, but I fear I shall have to cancel our plans. This guild meeting is like to take most of the night,” he sighed, and Natfári felt some sympathy for his upcoming trouble. He also found it slightly peculiar how openly Thráin spoke to him, whenever they actually met, but he had not yet found a satisfying answer to that puzzle. Instead, he simply bade the Prince a polite farewell, and went back to Nár’s office to write a more comprehensive report for Thrór’s later perusal.

 

 

The trial of attempted Nergakart was textbook. Though the perpetrator tried for leniency – claiming that nothing had actually _happened_ – the Law was clear and Master Járngrímr found himself summarily shaved and exiled in short order. The only one remotely unhappy – even those who had liked him where ashamed now that they had not realised his darker nature sooner – to see him go was his newly assigned apprentice, who had to find a new Master willing to take one someone who was, if not tainted, then certainly a little shaded by having Járngrímr’s name on his papers.

 

 

Arnóra’s life continued peacefully. After the first gift of the dagger that now never left her side, there had been no further communications from ‘N’. Her adad was quietly relieved; he did not like owing people, and though he knew that if ever the Black Owl asked something in return for his daughter’s peace, he would pay it gladly, he was glad that the Spymaster seemed to have taken no further interest in Arnóra, whose mild infatuation faded as the years passed.

 

 

Natfári was happy that on the few occasions he spotted Arnóra around Erebor, she was wearing the blade he had gifted to her. It had amused him to find an amethyst and silver pendant on her window sill the night after he had delivered the gift, but he had accepted the small token with a funny sort of gratitude. His sister had loved the intricate design, the thin silver wire shaped into spirals and waves around the central stone, interwoven in a delicate pattern. She – and her friends, once Nauma had showed off her new finery – had pestered him endlessly until he revealed the craftsdwarf and the result had been a steady source of work for Arnóra, who seemed to enjoy making the intricate pieces.

 

 

notes:

[1]  Contraction of nerkhar gadra makartûna – supreme violence against a lady. There is no Khuzdul word for a lady – the ûna ending makes any noun into a x-lady ie harrûna -> affinity-lady – so I’ve used the word/radicals for ‘she who is trusted’ to imply that the lady in question is believable.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't it amazing what insomnia does to your productivity? I think that's almost 8k words posted in one day. This chapter I blame entirely on Littlenori, because he/she/they have become this small voice in my head going "But what happened with x character _then?_ "...

The next time Natfári actually met Arnóra, she was standing with her father and uncles at Prince Thraín’s engagement party. Of course, _he_ was there mainly to check that every went according to plan, no uninvited guests – _possible assassins_ – slipping by his spies. The King was growing more paranoid lately, more mistrustful of his allies and convinced that some of the nobles wanted to dethrone him. Natfári had done his utmost to allay those fears – anyone wealthy enough to pay for a royal assassination was by definition _also_ wealthy enough to understand that the lax circumstances they currently lived under could change rapidly for the worse with a more observant and less paranoid ruler. Thraín tried, he did, and young Lady Frís, whom everyone knew as being on friendly terms with the Elves, attempted to smooth things over with their royal neighbours, though Natfári feared it was a matter of time before Thrór strained matters to such an extent that even the most diplomatic of dwarrow would not be able to mitigate the damage. He had allowed his son to follow his heart, something that had surprised many who had heard the way he spoke about Elves and those who did business with them – of whom Lady Frís and her parents were certainly counted, being personal friends of Elven Royalty. Banishing his dark thoughts, Natfári grabbed himself a goblet of mead, circling the room until he found himself staring into a pair of enchanting emerald eyes across the dance floor. It took him a second before he realised the eyes belonged to Arnóra who must have come of age by now, he suddenly realised. Her mithril hair was intricately braided into her beard and decorated with brilliant dark amethysts that made it shine all the brighter. She was currently speaking to some nobledwarf of little consequence, but she looked up when she felt his eyes on her. Natfári pretended not to be watching as she tilted her head thoughtfully, a slight frown appearing before it cleared into a brilliant smile aimed in his direction. He didn’t even realise he was returning the smile until she turned away to say something to her adad who nodded calmly. Natfári could have escaped easily, by at least seven different routes – only one of which included ducking out of a nearby window and climbing down to the level below the Ballroom – but he found himself curiously frozen to the spot as he watched her circle the dancefloor. He did not need his spy-training to know she was heading for him.

 

Arnóra felt slightly breathless as she sped – without running like she wanted to, to make sure ‘N’ didn’t just vanish again – around the dancefloor. If she could have, she would have pushed her way through the dancers, but they were doing a circle dance with interweaving rows and she’d get hopelessly tangled if she tried. Her skirts – a beautiful deep purple to match her hair pieces in just the right shade to complement her hair without washing her out – swished over the green stone floor.

“This time, I do not require rescue, Master ‘N’,” she said, feeling a little breathless as she spoke her greeting.

“So I see, Lady Arnóra,” he bowed, his red tresses catching the light of the torch behind him in a coppery shimmer. “Would you care for a glass of mead if I offered you that, perhaps, in lieu of my dagger to the throat of some unfortunate scum?”

 

When she laughed, he knew he was in trouble. The sound did odd things to him, _fluttery_ things he’d thought only existed in those horrid books his friend Geilis liked to collect and giggle with her gossipy circle of dwarrowdams over. Natfári shook his head slightly, trying to dislodge the feeling. It persisted. Mechanically, he poured a goblet of mead for Arnóra, who curtsied in thanks. Natfári didn’t think anyone had curtsied at him before. It was… weirdly endearing, even if she was technically above him in rank.

“Will you tell me your name?” she asked, looking hopeful. “I cannot always refer to you as ‘The Mysterious ‘N’’” she chuckled, when he took slightly too long to answer.

“Natfári, son of Northrasir, Lady Arnóra,” he heard himself answering with the truth. Mentally, he berated himself. He could have picked any number of credible aliases, and he _had_ to go and tell her the truth just because she smiled at him with those pretty eyes? What kind of hardened spymaster _was_ he?

Oblivious to Natfári’s inner monologue, Arnóra smiled widely, holding out her hand. “Then it is very nice to make your acquaintance at last, Master Natfári, and offer you my deepest gratitude for your…timely assistance.” A dark look passed over her pretty face at the end of the sentence, and Natfári cursed himself, even as he took her hand, bending to press his lips to her knuckles. Her hand was warm, he noted, in a distant corner of his mind, and her wrist smelled like roses.

 

Arnóra could hardly breathe. _His beard is so soft…_ she thought, sure that she was blushing like a silly child at the feel of it against her fingers. Wondering what those red locks might feel like under her fingers if she dared unbind the braids that contained them, Arnóra felt almost giddy.

“I only wish I had come sooner, Lady Arnóra,” Natfári whispered against her knuckles, hearing her breath speed up slightly as he spoke. Rising to his full height once more, he gave her a smile that he feared was far too sappy for their acquaintance.

“You were in time, Master Natfári,” she replied, but he knew they were both remembering what would have happened had he _not_ been. “And I very much enjoyed learning to use the gift you got me. It made me feel…safe.”

 

He couldn’t decide if her blushes were more adorable than her laughs, but it was a close call. He nodded at her words. Nauma had been the same way, after those bastard Men had… Natfári’s fist clenched in impotent anger. “I am glad. I am afraid that I passed your gift on to my sister as a Name-day present,” he admitted, feeling suddenly worried that she would take offense, but Arnóra just laughed.

“Mistress Nauma is your sister?” she asked, smiling. “I had wondered – you do not look much alike – but I recognise my own work, Master Natfári.” She was right that he and Nauma were not alike, with his rust-red hair and her honey curls, Nauma’s skin nut-brown like their amad, while he was pale like Northrasir. He was thin and wiry, while Nauma was short – even for a Dwarf – and quite rotund.

“She was instantly smitten with it,” he admitted, “and she – I like to,” he didn’t know why he was suddenly admitting all these things to an almost-stranger, but it worried him that he wasn’t more worried about it, “I like to spoil her, at least a little.” Not that it would make up for being too late to do more than set her broken bones and witness her tears, but he liked the way she smiled when he brought her something pretty. It soothed the raw edges of a wound that would never heal.

“I know,” Arnóra said, “she told me, once, when she was commissioning a piece for someone named Geilis.” He nodded; he had seen the intricately braided and twisted-together wires that framed Geilis’ favourite yellow topaz and recognized Arnóra’s hand in the design.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked, surprising himself. He idly thought that he would end up enslaved by her smiles and wondered if she’d be a kind mistress, which led to thoughts he shouldn’t think in the middle of a crowded Ball. Pushing away any notion of anything untoward, he simply offered Arnóra his hand, surprised by how willingly she took it. The intricate steps of the current dance forced him to focus on something beside the hand he held and the smell of roses that seemed to linger in her wake as they spun and jumped and danced among all the other happy couples. Natfári caught sight of Prince Thraín, seemingly lost to the world as he stared into the sparkling eyes of Lady Frís, the two of them ignoring everything around them and swaying gently in each other’s arms while the dance continued around them, flowing like water around a rock. The dancers twirled, and Natfári remembered to lift his partner, who put her hands on his shoulders, laughing with a clear joy that seemed to echo in his bones. Beneath his hands, and the silk and satin of her dress, he could feel Arnóra’s waist, feel the way her laughter moved her middle. She was a little wider than he was, sturdy build, like a proper Longbeard. It was… appealing.

 

 

Much later that evening, Natfári climbed in the window of his sister’s room – why use the doors if there were windows? – and collapsed in a heap at the foot of her bed. Nauma grumbled sleepily at him, but woke when he did not immediately begin telling her all about the ball.

“You seem… disturbed, nadad,” she whispered, prodding his side with a toe. “Did the Ball not go well?”

“Aye, it went very well,” he admitted quietly. “I’m in trouble Nami,” he continued, the petname old – even if it was not so different from her real name, it was still something uniquely _theirs_. “I’m in so much trouble.”

“Now, you’re worrying me, Nati,” she replied, rustling the bedclothes to turn and light a candle so she could see him properly. Natfári was incapable of wiping the goofy grin – and the panic in his eyes – away before she noted it. “Tell me, nadad, or I will tickle you until you do,” she threatened, only half in jest. She would do it too, Natfári knew, and she’d be relentless.

“I think I’ve met my One,” he said quietly, watching her face closely. Nauma gaped.

“You’re sure? Who is it? Anyone I know? What will you tell Adad?” When she fired a barrage of questions at him, Natfári relaxed, falling back on the mattress with a thump.

“You know the little wire-weaver you’re so fond of? The one who made that silver and amethyst necklace I gave you.”

“ _Arnóra?_ ” his sister screeched. “Arnóra is your One?” Natfári winced. He was surprised when Nauma launched herself at him, hugging him like it was going out of fashion. “Mahal’s beard, but that’s _perfect_. Oh, oh, nadad, she’s so sweet, and SO pretty!” Nauma gushed. Natfári wheezed. Nauma was _heavy_ when his lungs were taking all her weight. “Did you tell her? Did she feel it too?” Unable to get a word in edgewise, Natfári simply smiled at his sister’s excitement. The candle threw the scars on the left side of her face into stark relief, but for once she wasn’t hiding behind her hair, and he felt an almost painful pride at the way she was rambling on about Arnóra – whom she apparently knew quite a lot better than he had realised – gushing about this and that and force-feeding him a constant stream of tiny titbits of knowledge concerning the mithril-haired dam. Natfári could only smile. Tonight had been a very good night, he thought, falling asleep while Nauma was still bombarding him with information.

 

In a different – and a bit more affluent – area of Erebor, Arnóra was having almost the same conversation with her sister Norin, in hushed whispers as she shared her delicious new secret. Her quiet celebration had only one minor flaw: she had no idea where to begin to look for Natfári, son of Northrasir, but Norin wisely pointed out that the dwarf had managed to leave a gift on Arnóra’s windowsill and returned at least once, so he knew where _they_ lived. Falling asleep with a wide grin on her face, Arnóra was swept away in dreams filled with red hair, soft silver-grey eyes and roguish smirks.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Marry me,” she said, looking at him as though it were simply that easy. Natfári wanted to cry. Joy or sorrow, he did not know, but the urge to cry was there all the same. How could he do as she wanted, as _he_ had dreamed for longer than he knew, without telling her everything? Yet, telling her everything would be more than foolish, it’d be dangerous in the extreme. Between the King’s increasing paranoia and goldlust, the consequent squabbles between the nobles and the constant need for more information from without and within Erebor, he could hardly stop doing what he did best, could not bear to leave Thráin without even a modicum of the knowledge he needed to keep the Kingdom running behind Thrór’s back. “Marry me, Natfári,” she repeated, giving him one of those smiles he’d walk across burning coals for, though it was turning wobbly at the edges the longer he remained frozen in silence.

“I…” he paused, wondering why he’d never seen this coming, why he’d never made contingency plans when he _knew_ he loved her.

“You don’t want to,” she whispered, her face falling into despair. Natfári made a broken sound of protest, but Arnóra didn’t hear it, whirling away from him to hide her tears. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight when she struggled, kept her from fleeing.

“I want you,” he swore, “but, amrâlimê, are _you_ sure? My family… we’re not exactly nobles like yours.” He was scrambling for an excuse to put her off without destroying his own happiness in the process, but he knew there was no way he could give her up; Arnóra was _his_ and damn anyone who’d try to tell him otherwise. When she spun in his arms, he let her, surprised by the loud slap she delivered to his cheek, fury burning in her emerald eyes.

“How dare you say that as if it _matters_!” she yelled. Natfári winced slightly at the shrillness, his heart breaking at the sight of her tears.

“Maralmizu,” he mumbled, pulling her in for a soft kiss; the first he’d had from her lips, and hopefully the first of many. “I am sorry, amrâlimê, I just… worry.” He scowled at himself, but his self-hatred was forgotten when she returned her lips to his, kissing him back gently, her touch explorative; a reminder of her innocence.

“Well, don’t,” she replied sternly. Natfári wiped the tears from her cheeks, kissing her once more in wordless apology. “It is my choice whom I will marry.” He nodded. A small corner of his mind wondered how much pleasure he was taking from such simple kisses. They were far lovelier than anything he’d done before… and Natfári was _not_ an innocent.

 

* * *

 

 

“I need to tell you something,” he whispered into her hair, staring down at the small face of his daughter. Arnóra looked up; the love that shone in her eyes nearly bringing him to his knees.

“Isn’t she lovely?” she whispered. “She has my hair.”

“She is,” he admitted, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as his mind was derailed by watching the small pebble yawn.

“Halldora,” Arnóra whispered, “that is her name.” Natfári just nodded, pressing a kiss against his wife’s temple.

“Hello, Dori,” he murmured, when she placed the pebble in his arms, chuckling when the small hand wrapped itself around the braid in his beard. “She’s strong, amrâlimê,” he predicted. Arnóra smiled, snuggling against him with a light yawn. Staring at the two mithril heads, he felt a curious mix of despair and love fill him, remembering the warning of the elf-woman clad in white. “I’ll keep you safe, Dori, I promise,” he whispered, kissing her small face gently as Arnóra’s soft snores filled the room.

 

“What did you need to tell me?” Arnóra asked some days later, putting their small daughter in her crib and turning to face him.

“I…” suddenly, his prepared speech flew out of his head, leaving Natfári to stare dumbly at his wife. Arnóra raised an eyebrow at him. “Have you heard of the Black Owl?” he asked instead, though he thought it would be unlikely.

“Of course, I have,” she smiled. “Uncle has always spoken well of the Spymaster.” Natfári was floored. “What about him?” Arnóra asked, kissing his cheek in passing and looking back at him from their small kitchen.

“I…” Natfári took a deep breath, steeling himself. “I’m the Black Owl.” Arnóra gaped.

“You?” she asked, incredulous. Natfári scowled. “but you’re a guardsman!” she cried, staring at him like he was a stranger. Natfári’s heart crumbled.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring down at his feet. The feel of his wife wrapping her arms around him was unexpected, as well as the hard kiss he pressed against his mouth. When he looked up, he was confused to find her beaming at him. “You’re… not angry?” he whispered, tracing her cheek in disbelief. Arnóra shook her head.

“Oh, Nati,” she cried, suddenly weeping into his shoulder, “you’ve been acting so strange ever since I told you about the pebble, I was… Mahal, I was so worried, but you wouldn’t talk to me and Nauma didn’t know what was going on either!” she babbled frantically until he stilled the flow of her words with his lips.

“Maralmizu,” he muttered into her mouth, kissing her with desperation he had not known he felt. “I promise you, I haven’t got any more secrets from you,” he murmured, stroking her soft hair and pressing her body tight against his own. Arnóra moaned lightly, desire sparking between them as her kiss turned more frenzied.

They were interrupted by the shrill cry of a pebble’s displeasure, making both of them laugh out loud.

Natfári looked at the two mithril heads, close together, as Arnóra undid her dress enough to free one breast, letting his daughter suckle. This was his family, he thought, finding himself sending old Járngrímr a smug smirk at the thought that without the Master Engineer’s assault, he might never have found his One, his happiness.

No matter what was to come, whether the Elf-woman had been right and doom was coming to them all or not, Natfári swore that he would protect these two above all others.

 


	4. The Sacking of Erebor

Being a father was so much more fun than Natfári had ever expected. It was also terrifying on a level he couldn’t quite wrap his head around, how much it mattered that the small pebble was happy and safe – he worked hard to keep her so, her and Arnóra.

Of course, it wasn’t all fear and worry; he thought little Dori – Halldora was far too long a name for his little girl – exploring Erebor might be among the most amazing things he had ever seen, the sheer joy on her face when she mastered a new skill. He cried the first day she called him adad, speaking the word clearly enough to be understood, and privately he thought that if he was enslaved by Arnóra’s smiles he was at least as devoted to Dori’s.

That was the reason he found himself holding a small hand, walking with Dori at a leisurely pace towards the Guardhouse that he officially worked at, when the world exploded and Natfári knew no more.

 

* * *

 

 

The air was thick with stone dust; Dís was wailing in her arms, but Frís had no time to soothe, had simply grabbed her daughter and run, Frerin close behind her. Thorin… Thorin had gone hunting this morning, he must still be outside, she _wouldn’t_ think of him being inside the Mountain, _couldn’t_ think of her oldest, her wolf, trapped in their home, fated to be a Dragon’s feast. No. Frís continued on, ignoring the chaos around her with a single-mindedness that would have surprised those who knew her as the most reasonable member of the Royal family.

There was a glint of light on mithril hair, and for a moment Frís thought of her sister, the half-elf she hadn’t seen since the birth of her daughter; who had snuck into the Mountain to be with her at the birth as she had been for the boys. It wasn’t Geira, of course, though the hair was so similar the little one could have been her daughter. Frís barely registered the hand that the little girl was pulling, the body of her parent trapped beneath fallen rock that she had no hope of shifting. With a silent prayer to Mahal for the girl’s departed family, Frís scooped up the Dwarfling – she was a mother, even if she was not the girl’s mother, and she couldn’t bare to ignore the crying child, setting her on her other hip and handing the small bag she had managed to grab to Frerin with a strict admonishment to keep close.

“Adad!” the girl cried, “want Adad!” but she made no move to escape Frís’ arms, burrowing against her shoulder just like Dís, and continued to cry for her father.

 

* * *

 

When they were out, she kept hold of the children, breathing out a strangled scream when she spotted Thorin, whole and hale, standing with Dwalin and staring at her as though she were a stranger.

“Amad…” he whispered, picking up Frerin in a bear hug when the boy reached him.

“Thorin!” Frís cried, but she did not put the girls down, simply accepted the way he wrapped his arms around all of them, breathing in the smell that was her firstborn, even beneath the acrid smell of smoke and fear.

“Where’s Adad?” he whispered into her ear.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, feeling a renewal of fear at the thought of Thraín being gone – how would she keep them all from falling apart without him? Thorin was in no way old enough to take up his grandfather’s crown, for all that he was a smart boy. In her arms, Dís mumbled something that wasn’t really a word, and when she looked down the small girls were holding hands, smiling at each other as though they were the best of friends.

 

* * *

 

 

“Nen’ar!” The hissed whisper woke Frís from her doze in the back of a cart some intrepid baker had manage to escape with; the bread it had held was gone, distributed as fairly as she could manage, and the baker had insisted that she take the cart for her children.

“Gwathel?” Frís mumbled, blinking her eyes open and staring at the hooded figure standing by the end of the cart. Dís turned in her sleep, tangled up with the other little girl who’d refused to give her name. The cloaked figure dropped her hood, revealing the never-aging face of Rhonith to Frís’ eyes. She smiled.

“Finally!” Rhonith cried, reaching out to hug her close. “I was so worried I’d never find you!”

“How… how are you here?” Frís wondered, gripping her hand just to be sure she was really there.

“I’ve been living in Mirkwood for some weeks now, I was planning to sneak in to see you… I saw the dragon, sister, I’m sorry… we were too late.” Rhonith whispered, tears filling her eyes.

“We?” Frís asked, glancing around her, but spotting no Elves.

“Atheg brought the army, but we were too late to kill the wyrm before it had gained the Mountain,” Rhonith replied sadly. “We met with Thrór, but he is… sister, he is crazy!”

“He is… not himself,” Frís agreed carefully, aware that they were not alone; such talk could be considered treason.

“Frís, he demanded we send out warriors to slay the beast inside Erebor, demanded Thranduil swear fealty to him…” Rhonith’s face twisted into something Frís couldn’t decipher, fury mingled with grief so heavy she thought it would break her to hear the next words.

“Tell me.” She said, her voice never wavering.

“He has banished us,” Rhonith whispered, “any Elf spotted in your camp will be executed…” Frís gasped, her grip tightening involuntarily.

“You must leave, then,” she murmured, though the thought made her sad. “You’re not safe here.”

“I want to help!” Rhonith retorted hotly, “Legolas was going crazy when we didn’t see you with Thraín! Atheg was furious, of course, but we would never abandon you to starvation and death!”

“Thraín is alive?” Frís asked, feeling weak with sudden release of tension. “Oh, thank the Maker,” she murmured, squeezing Rhonith’s hand.

“You… you did not know?” The peredhel asked, her Durin-blue eyes wide in the moonlight. “Ai, I am sorry, Frís, I did not think to ask. I have seen Thorin, also, and Fundin with his sons, though the Lady Cantor is presumed dead… I do not know so many by sight alone, though, and Thrór offered no introductions of those around him.”

“Where is my husband? Perhaps… perhaps we can work around my good-father…” Frís mumbled, staring at her knuckles. This was treason, most likely, even though she and Thraín had been skirting the label for years trying to rule around Thrór’s increasingly erratic decisions.

“I will take you to him,” Rhonith swore, hopping down from the end of the cart and pulling her hood back up to cover her shiny hair – even more conspicuous in the moonlight. Frís sighed, jostling Dís and Frerin gently to wake them.

“Wake up, little ones,” she whispered, “we’re going to find out family.”

“Adad?” The little girl with mithril hair asked, staring up at her with eyes that filled with tears when Frís shook her head.

“I’m sorry raklûna,” she murmured, “I don’t know who your adad is, nor where I could find him. This is my sister, however; she will carry you.” Pointing at Rhonith, who lowered her hood to smile at the little girl, Frís waited for the dwarfling to nod before handing her to Rhonith.

“Zars-nana’.” The girl said, pointing at Rhonith’s pointy ears then at her own hair. “Nana’yê?”

“Iraknana’,” Rhonith nodded, lifting the girl onto her hip. Frís stared – that was more talking than the dwarfling had done since they escaped the mountain; she had wondered if she was so young her vocabulary consisted only of adad and amad, though she looked only slightly younger than Dís. “Let’s go, Frís, I’m sure Thraín will want to see you.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Dori!” Arnóra cried, trying to fight her way out of Captain Mundi’s strong hold to no avail. “DORI!” She had run to the guardhouse the moment she had felt the disturbance, but though she had found her good-sister with her friend, she had found neither her daughter nor her husband.

“You can’t go back in, Arna,” Nauma whispered, tears making trails in the dust that clung to her face. “Nati will… Nati will find us, he’ll keep Dori safe, you’ll see.” Clinging to Arnóra’s hand, neither of them admitted that the likelihood of seeing father or daughter again were slim to none.

Eventually, Arnóra hung limply in Mundi’s arms, her despair spent, though she kept turning back to look for any sign of survivors following them.

She saw none.

 

* * *

 

 

Rhonith’s plan was not without danger, everyone agreed, but the clandestine plot was the only way to foil Thrór’s edict, the only way they might ensure that their people survived.

Currently, that meant sitting in a circle of dwarflings, handing out small pieces of lembas while she told amusing stories in Khuzdul – her accent in Westron, while common among the Eldar, was noticeable to a Dwarf’s ears and it had been agreed that speaking only Khuzdul was the only way to pull off their scheme with any hope of success. On her lap, little sanzigil-karkith sat quietly, playing with the thin end of one of Rhonith’s braids. No one had been able to convince the dwarfling to tell them her name, but she seemed to prefer to stay with Rhonith, claiming her as her sister from the forest, which no one seemed able to deny the small probably-orphaned dwarfling. Frís still held some hope that the dwarfling’s mother might be found, though it was dwindling the closer they got to the southern edge of the forest where Rhonith would have to leave them.

 

* * *

 

“You are safe?” he asked, as he always asked, when she found them between the trees, handing over her empty sack for a fresh one filled with lembas. Rhonith smiled, reaching up to stroke the tip of his ears softly.

“I am safe, Legolas, I promise.” She said, as she had said on every night since the first one. “Do not worry. I am careful.” When he nodded, returning the touch, she smiled, turning back towards the camp with little more than a wave for a farewell. She might be safe, but she was becoming a recognised figure among those who camped closest to her, and it would not do to be missed for longer than it took to make water.

 

 

* * *

 

No one asked how she obtained the food she gave to the dwarflings – no one had the presence of mind to care, most likely; existing in a numbing fog of grief for all they had s suddenly lost – and Rhonith did not tell. Sometimes she sang, songs she remembered her mother and uncle singing in a long-lost Mountain more than an Age before; sometimes she told stories, stories of Dwarven heroes but also stores of Men and Elves, translated in her mind from whatever language she had originally heard them told. She spoke of vast mountain halls, of forests that stretched beyond knowledge, of seas made of sand, where the men had skin as dark as ink. Fantastical tales to catch the attention of young and old alike had soon made her a popular target of an evening, wherever she would find herself sat by a fire, karkith on her lap and a song on her lips.

 

* * *

 

 

“Arnóra!” Captain Mundi called, breathless from running. “Arnóra, I found Dori!”

“You… you found Dori?” Arnóra croaked, hardly daring to believe him. Mundi nodded.

She didn’t even realise she was standing when she began to run, Nauma’s hand still clenched tight in her own as they followed Mundi back through the camp, skirting those who had found spots to rest – Arnóra even jumped over a few prone shapes – in their haste to reach the dwarfling.

 

“Amad!” Karkith cried, interrupting Rhonith’s story and reaching towards a dam who shared her mithril hair. Rhonith smiled, but she did not think the dwarrowdam noticed, walking the last few steps towards them as though she could not believe her eyes. “Amad!” the little girl cried, and then she was plucked from Rhontih’s lap, cradled against a breast heaving with relieved sobs.

“Oh, Dori,” Arnóra cried, pressing kisses everywhere her kisses could reach, feeling the familiar weight of her pebble in her arms. When she finally managed to lift her head, Nauma’s arms were tight around the both of them, the rotund dwarrowdam shaking with sobs of her own while Mundi was patting her back gently, smiling as though he was paid to do so. Arnóra chuckled weakly, turning to stare at the cloaked dam who had been holding her daughter.

“ **E gêdul tada makhahsi nathithzi** ,[1]” she smiled, her blue eyes catching the fire, though Arnóra’s attention was caught by the few strands of hair visible beneath the deep hood. Reaching up, she touched one of her own curly locks wonderingly.

“ **Zars-nana’, amad** ,” Dori mumbled sleepily in her arms. “ **Iraknana’yê**.[2]”

“ **Akhminruki astî,** ” Arnóra whispered, “I can never repay you, cousin, but… thank you.”

“I did not bring her outside,” Rhonith replied gently, “she was placed in my arms by the Princess Frís, who rescued her from the Mountain. Your thanks should go to her.” With that, she stood, bowing her head once in the direction of the small family and disappeared into the shadows outside the light of the small fire, vanishing beyond their sight almost instantly.

 

It wasn’t until the next morning that Arnóra found the small bracelet around her daughter’s wrist, tied from mithril hair that seemed somehow shinier than her own or Dori’s, the small knots all meaning little sister.

 

[1] I am happy that you have found your daughter.

[2] Tree-sister, mother. My cousin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natfári did survive - he was knocked out by the same rockfall that crushed the Dwarf Frís mistook for Dori's father - but he did not reunite with his wife until days after they had left the borders of Mirkwood behind, having spent some time unconscious, and moving slowly due to a broken ankle.


End file.
